Only In This Room
by Sinceslicedbread
Summary: Brendan Brady at different ages, remembers different rooms. Rated M for subject matter.


**ONLY IN THIS ROOM.**

**A/N This Brendan Brady may be too OOC for some.**

**A/N 2 The theme tackled in this story may disturb others.**

**Brendan aged 34yrs.**

I can't help myself. I love to watch him sleep. To watch the rise and slow fall of his fragile-looking ribs, (they're not). To watch his still erect nipples proudly announce to the world that they are a force to be reckoned with, (and how). To watch the wings of his tattoo flutter and almost take flight, as he shifts slightly to give his dreams more room to roam.

My eyes won't leave his face.

He still looks too young to be here by himself, to be out alone; but then I see maturity darkening his top lip.

Those lips that have already shown me there is experience there.

His eyes stir.

His lashes fan his face in preparation for lift-off; but no, he just rocks and rolls, murmurs and settles once more.

He murmurs my name.

I'm in his thoughts.

I should be.

He was a tough nut to crack. A tough bird to catch.

He took effort. I'm not used to that.

It was like being around a child. I had to guide him to me - sight unseen. Make him want me, whilst hiding the props. He kept going off-script, staying too long in the Green Room and generally missing all his cues.

He's young.

I had to make sure I was all he could see and I did - eventually.

It took two Acts for full realisation to dawn.

He's not the brightest boy; but he's …

He's a marvel.

It's miraculous how his tan remains all over and even - in winter.

I rub my hands over his skin's surface, following the dips, edges and curves that are quintessentially him.

I play with him, gently, still soft and slick.

I smile; he still has come in his bellybutton from his last exertion. My boy has no sense of direction.

My boy.

I can't believe how often those two words make themselves present these days.

They just slip out. Unbidden. Unforced.

Unheard by him.

I would never lose that much control.

In here. In this space. In this home between my legs, here and only here would I dare to think these thoughts. When I grip his head so tightly against my mouth. When I graze my teeth against his skull, then and only then will I whisper.

Mine.

He can't know, but I can show him - here.

He must know my heart speeds up to rival rockets. That my bones shake. That I can't just kiss and caress I must take and possess also. There will always be the rough with the smooth with me. Always.

He must know that.

I'm teaching him the rules; but he keeps forgetting. The blows, the jabs, the slaps - these are only dished out when you colour outside the lines. When you don't join the dots. When you start drawing freestyle.

He's not the brightest boy in the class but I think he's getting it - now.

He must think there are times I don't like him. Not true. There are never any times I don't like him. I lo..

I want him. Simple as. More than the others. Harder, deeper than anyone who has passed through my hands before.

I try not to think about it; but when I do, it's always about him. He's a constant, embedded. My own personal screensaver.

Ha, he's drooling now, he's that relaxed. I can't resist. I lick his spit. Our spit probably. The lines have blurred so much, so quickly. I am him. Does he know?

I envy him and his blissed out state. To be that relaxed with another person. To hand over control, even temporarily is alien to me. A foreign country. I need to stay alert. Have to stay alert.

It's second nature - now and yet….

Sleep and peace beckons around him. Around Stephen.

With him, I want to float away to oblivion and never come back. I want to feel completely.

Love completely. Be complete.

Only in this room do I experience this.

-OOO-

**Brendan aged 9 yrs.**

I often play alone, especially here. Chez is rubbish at playing Superheroes. She always wants to be Superman and she knows I'm always Superman, she can be Batman or Catwoman or summat; but she always says no when I tell her.

Girls.

She's outside; I can see her, playing by the waters edge. She's ok, she's sensible. A blonde sunbeam bouncing around without a care in the world, with her bucket and spade. Jesus wants her, I can see why.

She's ok.

We're here on holiday, out-of-season of course. Nan has a holiday home and we're here for the week.

Seven days and seven afternoons.

We're meant to be relaxing having fun, but I find that I work more, try harder when I'm here rather than at home.

I have to stay alert because we are all together.

The whole family. It's unusual.

I keep some toys here. Not many. Just enough. A few cars, rescue-trucks, fire engines, ambulances anything I might need.

I've put pictures on my wall too. Superheroes drawn by me, for me. Protection. Nan thinks they're cute.

I try to stay as far away from the bedroom door as possible. Over by the windowsill is the best spot. I can look out. Keep an eye on Chez. Keep her safe. I'd never tell her.

Never.

I can practise my driving with my cars along the window-ledge. Practise accelerating as fast as possible away.

From here.

I've become really good at sensing vibrations. I know what my Nan's footsteps feel like. They're soft but tired, defeated almost. Chez's are bright and loud and fast. Moira's (her mum) are shy and nervous as if she doesn't want to upset anyone.

His are heavy and sluggish and scary. His walk towards me, the others walk on by.

Then I hear, not feel. I hear the click of the door-latch. It's old-fashioned and it would be easy to unlock but no-one does. No-one tries. I don't even turn around anymore. I'm not surprised. I just wish he could think of something else to do in the late afternoons, whilst the English pubs are shut.

I'll look out to the window one last time and sometimes catch Chez practising her handstands on the sand below. All the colours drain away.

Everything is pastel-shaded and dull. Everything seems sad, in preparation.

I concentrate on my own heart-beat. I try to keep it steady. To push down the fear that I always feel, the panic. I've not conquered it yet.

Dad calls me boy, not son. It's a distance thing.

He puts down his half-smoked cigarette (I'm never going to smoke) and runs his yellow-nicotine stained fingers through my hair, (he likes it long).

He says _come to me boy_ and I do. I've learnt what happens when I don't, so I do.

I want to fly away. I always do. Does Superman need a passport? I'll find out.

He pushes me down onto my knees. I hate it, because I'm facing him and not the window. I can't protect if I can't see.

He makes me unbuckle him.

He makes me kiss him there.

He smells of sweat, beer and stale wee.

His rough hair scratches my face. It's wiry and hard.

I close my eyes. It's hard to breathe.

He pulls my head upwards and slaps my cheek if I'm too slow or if I stop.

I hum a song in my head to keep up, Onward Christian Soldiers.

He likes that.

Superman just looks on - not so super after all.

My mind wanders. I try to remember when I last felt free, innocent like the child that I'm currently shaped like. Not for a while now. A long while.

I try to run away from him in my mind. I splinter, fracture with the effort.

I lock down all my likes in different boxes. I'll get back to them later, when I'm grown.

Then he turns me 'round and I wish that he hadn't.

I feel like one of Chez's rag dolls. Flung about and played with by somebody else's hands.

I'm thinking of giving all my toys away. I'm too old for them now.

I'm a man, now.

He holds me tight and I feel his stubble between my shoulder-blades.

I finally break.

I close my eyes and cry, on the inside.

I promise never to let anyone see me cry ever again.

Never will I let anyone this close again.

Only Chez.

All of this must stay in this room.

Only in this room do I experience this.

-OOO-

**Comments are always appreciated**


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